Summer Dance

by Nan Rossiter

  Drew called Villanova that afternoon, but they told him it was already too late. They explained that he could reapply for the spring semester, but because he wasn’t playing basketball that winter, he wouldn’t be eligible for an athletic scholarship.

  Drew was despondent. I hadn’t realized his scholarship was the only way he could go to college. I knew his father had lost his job—that was why they’d moved to Medford—and although his dad had found a new job, his parents hadn’t recovered from the lost income and they hadn’t been able to set anything aside for college.

  Needless to say, Drew and I were in the same place we’d been before. The only difference was that the fragile thread that had held us together—our baby—was gone. I tried to put things in a positive light. I tried to tell Drew—as my father had told me—that this would pass, that things would get better, but he didn’t want to hear it.

  In the weeks that followed, he barely looked at me. I was the reason his world had come crashing down and he felt nothing but resentment toward me . . . and he made it very clear he wanted his freedom.

  Unfortunately, in the eyes of the church—and in my heart—divorce was a sin.

  Chapter 5

  Drew approached the church about having our marriage annulled but was told that, for couples who’d been married in the church by a priest, annulment was not an option. As the Bible says: “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  I struggled with this. Why did we have to spend our lives legally bound to each other when we would never have a future together? It made no sense. Finally, I decided if this was God’s punishment and my penance—not pennies like Lizzy had told me when we were little—I would just have to deal with it. I was so disillusioned by relationships and marriage anyway, I didn’t think I’d ever fall in love again, never mind get married.

  Drew and I separated soon after. He moved to an apartment with two high school friends and started working at the textile mill, and I moved out of our apartment over the garage and back into my old bedroom. I continued working at the grocery store and I saved every penny. After learning that scholarships could be rescinded, I wasn’t taking any chances. If I ever had the opportunity to attend college again, I was going to have some money saved.

  “You are freakin’ kidding me!” Lizzy exclaimed as each injustice was served.

  “It’s what I deserve,” I muttered miserably.

  “You don’t deserve this,” she countered angrily.

  Although Lizzy was overwhelmed with schoolwork and hardly ever went to mass anymore (I went every week without fail), we usually spent Saturday nights together. Sometimes we went to a movie, and other times we made popcorn and snuck a bottle of Boone’s Farm up to her room—although it wasn’t very hard to sneak anything past Mrs. McAllister anymore. Her failed marriage—and her obsessive hatred for her husband—had made her increasingly cynical and bitter, and she’d not only taken up smoking, she’d also graduated from an occasional glass of wine to drinking vodka and tonic every night. Lizzy tried to get her to ease up, but that only seemed to make her more determined to drink. I watched her slow, steady decline in amazement. Mrs. McAllister—who’d once been so pious, perfect, and self-righteous—was now sad, self-absorbed, and consumed by hatred and bitterness.

  “Maybe we should’ve tried to get our parents together when we were younger. Then they wouldn’t be so alone and unhappy now,” Lizzy mused, sipping the flavor of the night—Tickled Pink.

  “Ha!” I said, leaning back on a stack of pillows. “That would never have happened. Your mother is still married to your father, so she could never get involved with someone new—she’d be committing adultery.”

  Lizzy shook her head. “It’s the same with you and Drew. What are you going to do? Stay married to him your whole life and never fall in love again?”

  “I guess so,” I said, reaching for the popcorn.

  “How do you know you won’t meet someone?”

  “I don’t, but I made my bed—literally—so now I have to lie in it.”

  “That is such a load of crap,” Lizzy said, pouring more wine into our cups. “The church is wrong.”

  “What?” I said, feigning shock. “Did I just hear you question the Catholic Church?” With mock concern, I looked at the ceiling. “Watch out for lightning.”

  Lizzy rolled her eyes. “They should give you an annulment.”

  “Well, they’re not,” I said, dropping a piece of popcorn into my mouth.

  “Then you should get a divorce.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said resignedly. “If we get divorced, we’ll be shunned.”

  “God will forgive you.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Because I honestly don’t think He’s the mean, unforgiving ogre the church makes him out to be. The regimented rules of the church are based on the teachings of the Old Testament. After Jesus came along, everything changed—the New Testament is about love, acceptance, kindness, and forgiveness.”

  I took a sip of my wine. “So you’re saying we should turn our backs on everything we’ve been taught?”

  “Not everything, just the things that are ridiculously outdated.”

  “Sounds risky,” I teased. “What would your mother think if she heard you say that?”

  Lizzy waved her hand dismissively. “My mother is a perfect example of how the church can ruin someone’s life. I don’t think people are meant to live guilt-ridden lives and confess to a priest every time they do something wrong.”

  “You’re such a free thinker,” I teased.

  “Someone has to do it,” Lizzy said with a grin as she dropped a piece of popcorn into her mouth.

  “How are your classes going?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Although I’m going to fail anatomy.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said, rolling my eyes. Lizzy had always been overly dramatic when it came to grades. She’d never scored anything lower than an A-minus, but if she even had one point taken off, she insisted she was failing.

  “I am,” she countered.

  “Well, if it’s the male part of the anatomy, I have a little experience with that.”

  “Ha! No! It’s the inside part of the anatomy.”

  “Ah,” I said with a laugh. “The heart—well, mine is broken, so I can’t help you with that.”

  “Speaking of male parts, though,” she said with an impish grin. “There’s a guy in my class who’s kind of cute.”

  I sat up in surprise. Lizzy had never taken an interest in any boy—ever. “No way!”

  “Way,” she said, still grinning.

  “Tell me more.”

  “That’s all.”

  “There must be more. Does he have a name?”

  “Simon . . .” she said, and I raised my eyebrows. She took a sip of her wine and tried to suppress a wicked grin. “Simon Cohen.”

  I shook my head. “You are going to put your mother in an early grave.”

  Chapter 6

  Lizzy and I received First Communion on Mother’s Day, 1954. We were both the age of reason—seven—just as Lizzy had predicted. A prerequisite to receiving Communion is to have first participated in a Sacrament of Penance (or pennies, as I continued to tease Lizzy). I will never forget my first confession. I can still feel the perspiration trickling down the sides of my face as I knelt in the hot, dimly lit confessional, trying to remember what I was supposed to do . . . and the order in which I was supposed to do it. My heart pounded as I waited. Finally, I heard the swish of heavy fabric, followed by a whoosh and a click as the little window above my head slid open. I swallowed, my heart racing as I crossed myself.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I whispered.

  “What are your sins, my child?”

  I felt my face flush with shame. “I-I . . . sometimes think bad thoughts . . . and I often take a cookie without asking.”

  On the other side of the screen, there was silence as my heart continued to pound�
��I was certain I was damned to hell. Finally, the priest cleared his throat. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Are you truly sorry?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like you to say one rosary.”

  I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yes, Father,” I said.

  “You may go.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and as I started to stand up, I suddenly realized what I’d forgotten. I fell back to my knees and crossed myself and then nervously fumbled with the latch on the ancient wooden door before escaping into the light and breathing again.

  The following Sunday, Mrs. McAllister ushered Lizzy and me to the back of the church, where all the second graders were lined up to receive First Communion. As we waited, I tried to hide behind Lizzy because my dress—unlike all the other white dresses and suits—was light blue. I’d begged my dad to let me get a new dress, but he said it wasn’t practical to buy a dress for one occasion and never wear it again. I insisted I’d wear it again, but there was no changing his mind. He promised to come to the service, though, and then reminded me that he wouldn’t be able to receive Communion because he wasn’t Catholic.

  I frowned—why couldn’t my dad receive Communion? He believed Jesus was his savior. Wasn’t he a child of God too? It was upsetting, but instead of pressing him for an answer, I nodded—I was just glad he was coming.

  As we walked into the sanctuary, I scanned the sea of sober faces, looking for my one true supporter—my faithful fan—my dad. When I finally saw him, sitting in the back pew, he smiled and I waved; then he nodded for me to pay attention. I nodded and turned just in time to not bump into Lizzy and make the whole line of second graders fall like dominos. Looking back now, I realize how appropriate that would’ve been. I don’t believe seven-year-olds have the capacity to truly grasp something as profound as the sacred meaning of Holy Communion. When I first felt the Eucharist dissolving on my tongue, I knew it was symbolic, but I was seven years old and I couldn’t help but wonder what part of Christ’s body had been given to me.

  When the service ended, I found my dad waiting in the back of the church. Everyone else was excitedly heading off to celebrate with their families. Since it was Mother’s Day, even Lizzy was going to a restaurant with her grandparents. Mrs. McAllister invited us to come with them and I looked up hopefully, but my dad just shook his head.

  “No, thank you,” he said. “You can go, Sal,” he said, nodding to me, but I clung to his hand.

  “No . . . I don’t want to go without you,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

  Through all the years that followed, Lizzy and I continued to attend catechism every Wednesday afternoon—this was in addition to the religious classes we had during school. My favorite nun was Sister Mary Agnes—she was young and pretty and had a wonderful sense of humor and she was always reminding me to not take life so seriously.

  I prayed I’d have her for a teacher, but I always ended up with Sister Mary Frances, who was ancient and wrinkled, never smiled, and kept a ruler tucked into the belt of her habit—which she rapped mercilessly on our knuckles when we failed to recite our most recent assignment. There were no blurred lines in Sister Mary Frances’s teachings. The rules, rituals, and sacraments of the Catholic Church were not to be taken lightly. If you sinned, you would be punished. End of story.

  I was blessed to have Sister Mary Agnes twice during those years. Once when I was in fourth grade, preparing for Confirmation, and again when I was in tenth grade. When I was in fourth, Sister Mary Agnes gave me a book about Joan of Arc. I went home and read it that very same night, and when I came in the next morning, I reported back that I loved the story of the young woman who, at seventeen, bravely led her French countrymen in the fight to break the oppression forced on them by England . . . but, I added, it was a horrible and tragic injustice that she’d been found guilty of witchcraft and burned at the stake. I couldn’t even imagine it! Sister Mary Agnes nodded in agreement and then whispered, “I think you should choose Joan for your Confirmation name.” If she’d only known how appropriate it would turn out to be!

  In tenth grade, I was blessed to have Sister Mary Agnes again—this time, for English, the class in which I was introduced to books like Ulysses and Moby Dick and Pride and Prejudice.

  It’s also when the seed to become a writer was first planted.

  Chapter 7

  I started taking classes at Boston College in the spring of 1966—although it was really late winter—and commuted daily into the city with my dad. Since I was still living at home, my life didn’t change very much. The only big difference in my life was triggered by a change in Lizzy’s: She started dating “that Jewish boy,” as Mrs. McAllister called Simon (heaven forbid she use his name), so we only saw each other when we were both working or when we went to the same mass—which wasn’t often. I went every week, sometimes more than once, but Lizzy’s attendance had fallen off dramatically, leaving me to sit alone with my thoughts and my guilt.

  As the weeks slipped by, I started to feel as if Lizzy and I were growing apart. We’d been closer than sisters growing up, so her absence left a gaping hole in my life. It also left me feeling neglected and a little jealous. I missed our Saturday nights watching The Dating Game or My Three Sons or Get Smart. I missed losing in backgammon or Scrabble—no matter what game we played, Lizzy still won. Her mind was always plotting two moves ahead while mine was trying to solve my current dilemma. One time, we played Scrabble and she used all of her tiles to make the word highjack (using the g I’d used to make hug), and because she’d strategically placed her tiles over pink and blue squares—and used all of them—she scored 374 points!

  I also missed sipping Boone’s Farm and talking late into the night. Lizzy’s progressive way of thinking was spilling into every aspect of her life—from politics to current events and from the beliefs we’d been taught to the beliefs Simon had been taught. Unlike her mother, Lizzy was accepting of everyone, no matter what their race, religion, or sexual orientation. She was well ahead of her time, and although she still labeled people on occasion, she tried not to criticize.

  As the weeks slipped by, Lizzy and I both became buried in homework—she in chemistry and biology and me in English Lit and accounting (my dad’s idea). The weeks turned into months, and although I met new people at college—I was even asked out a couple times—my commuter status kept me away from campus at night and on weekends, so I didn’t enjoy the camaraderie of dorm life or other social events. Needless to say, between schoolwork—I was doubling up on classes to catch up on my missed semester—and not being there, I didn’t have the opportunity to build any lasting friendships.

  The months quickly turned into years, and before we knew it, we were graduating—Lizzy with a degree in nursing and a job at Massachusetts General, and me with a BFA in English and my boring old job at Stop & Shop.

  “You’ll find something,” Lizzy assured me. “You just need to finish your teaching certificate.”

  “I know,” I said, nodding. I’d been planning on getting my certificate all along, but because I’d been taking accounting and business classes, the opportunity had slipped by. “I’ve actually applied for a new job—it’s not teaching, but hopefully it will pay a little more than being a cashier.”

  “What is it?” Lizzy asked.

  “Waitressing at the pub down by the river.”

  “When do you start?”

  “The week after next.”

  “Perfect,” she said with a slow smile.

  I frowned. “Why is that perfect?”

  “Simon and I are going to Nantucket for a week and we want you to come.”

  “You are?” I asked, frowning.

  She nodded. “We’re celebrating graduating.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, I don’t think I want to go,” I said, resisting. “I have a lot going on and I hate being a third wheel.”

  “You don’t have that much going on and
you won’t be a third wheel. Besides, if you don’t come, my mother won’t let me go.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Your mother isn’t going to stop you,” I said. “You’re an adult . . . and you have a real job.”

  “That’s not the only reason we want you to come,” Lizzy countered. “It’ll just be more fun if you’re there.”

  I eyed her skeptically. “I doubt it. Besides, it’ll be awkward.”

  “No, it won’t,” Lizzy assured. “Besides, you’ll love Nantucket. You need to get out of this stupid town.”

  I shook my head, but Lizzy kept pressing until I finally agreed.

  We caught the ferry from Hyannis late Saturday afternoon, and by the time the island came into view, the sun was setting. I leaned on the railing, feeling the misty spray of the ocean on my cheeks. I’d never seen the ocean beyond Boston Harbor before and now I was riding on top of its beautiful, undulating blueness. I watched two gorgeous white sailboats skimming across the waves, their sails billowing in the golden sunlight; then I turned to watch the lights blinking to life across the island. I was captivated. I’d lived my entire life in Medford, and although I’d seen pictures of other places, I never imagined the amazing beauty that existed beyond my hometown.

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Lizzy said, standing next to me, the wind whipping her long, wavy dark hair.

  I nodded. “I’m going to live here someday,” I said, the words spilling unexpectedly from my mouth.

  Lizzy laughed and tucked her wild hair behind her ears. “There’s no reason you couldn’t.”

  As the ferry docked, Simon hitched his backpack on his shoulders, and Lizzy and I picked up our bags. We walked up the cobblestone street toward town and stopped outside a small restaurant to look at the menu. Simon said the food was really good and suggested we have dinner because he didn’t know how much food—if any—was at the house. That was all the convincing Lizzy and I needed—we were starving!